


Salt

by landrews



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, HigherPower!Cordy, Hurt/Comfort, Martial Arts, Swords, baby!Connor, five times fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-09 22:49:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10423545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/landrews/pseuds/landrews
Summary: It all starts with Angelus, but they can't let it go – Cordy/Angel (mention of B/A)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starlet2367](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlet2367/gifts).



> Time period- BtVS through Post-AtS  
> First posted: 2/3/2017  
>  **Warning- underage in first section - non-violent non/con, but definitely non-con in first section**  
>  Disclaimer: Not mine, Whedon's et al, a work of transformative fiction.  
> A/N: Happy Birthday 2017, Starlet2367. We'll always have fanfic! Unbetaed.  
> Link cross-posted to [1_million_words](http://1-million-words.livejournal.com/1985941.html), [Stranger-Things](http://www.stranger-things.net)

**SALT**

 

_Stuck inside of the wrong frame_  
I don't feel attached to this name  
My body, I must reclaim  
With different eyes and no shame 

_Try, try to just hear me out_  
Don't ask why, why  
I'm taking this route  
It's alright, right?  
That's what I tell myself, but I don't know know 

_So I ran 'til I couldn't & I screamed, until my voice was gone_  
I believed what I shouldn't have, I don't know why  
These memories are nothing to me just salt 

~Salt by Bad Suns

 

1)

She's easily the flightiest of the Scoobies. Possibly the smartest. The one with the greatest sense of self-preservation. The moon to Buffy's sun. Dark where Buffy's light. Raw, serrated insecurity versus Buffy's gilded sarcasm. He'd never turn Buffy, but Cordelia reminds him of Drusilla in the only ways that count. He drifts past her bed, in the mood to contemplate. 

Even in sleep, the curve of her full lips and slight upturn of her nose— the arch of her brows—give her an air of haughtiness. A long piece of hair curls over her collarbone. Angelus trails his fingertips along her skin, brushes the hair aside. Cordelia sighs. Dropping into that clear place inside him that slows the world around him, he slips under the thin sheet thrown over her, presses himself along the line of her back, slides his downward arm under her pillow, so fast she won't even register the change except as the coolness of fresh sheets against her heating body. Letting the world resume its normal pace, Angelus strokes her neck, her chin, her cheek. Those moist lips twitch up as she shifts with a soft intake of breath, and settles herself into the comfort of his hold. Reversing the direction of his stroke, he soaks in the soft smoothness of her pampered skin, the rounded strength of her shoulder, the lithe line of her long arm to the delicate turn of her wrist. Slips the back of his hand under the curl of her palm.

Achingly slow, he lifts their hands, placing them upon the soft pooch of her relaxed belly. He closes his eyes on the sharp spike of pleasure the sound and the movement of her body beneath his hand creates in him, the knowledge of what he could do to her, but won't. Not yet. Not until he's strung Buffy out as far as he can take it. Anticipation is everything. Cordelia is the balm until then. The ice to Buffy's fire. 

He almost, almost, breathes in at the thought, but catches himself. Synchronous movement is the key to this form of seduction. It's an art. His cock surges in rebellion, but Cordelia only tilts her pelvis in response and oh! Oh! He wants so much more, wants to flip her, see her startle awake, the gleam of her wide, dark eyes, her open mouth, before he sinks his fangs into her and shoves up into her at the same time. Angelus bites back a groan and she stirs, leans into him, stretching out against him. 

Before he can lose her, he shifts their hands down onto her firm young mound. She stills. Gently, gently, he lets his fingers warm her, wander against her. She presses up and he presses down. Applies himself to that age old magic, teasing her desire from her hidden places, supping it from the air, letting it calm him until he can think again. He opens his eyes so he watch her open to him, see the evidence of her restlessness beneath the laxity of sleepiness, rouse her just enough that she responds, but not so much that she fully wakes. 

When she has a leg wrapped up over his thighs, has both her hands upon his under her panties as he rubs down across her again and again, he lets his fingers slid further down along the hot wet of her, holds her head and upper body steady with the arm around her as she bucks up into the familiar rhythm of her own hand and finally enters her, thrusting three fingers into her at once. His hips follow the stiffening of her body, the taut hold of her leg around him as she clenches around his fingers. 

She moans, low in her throat, and presses herself down, her leg pulling against his, digging both her heels down, spreading her knees further for him. He slides his fingers out and back in, one quick motion. She gasps, rocking. He repeats the motion and she stiffens, something shifting in her and he doesn't care anymore. Angelus meets her gaze as she opens her glazed eyes, watches her fully wake. His cock hardens fully on the scent of her fear. 

He thrust against her ass, his fingers still buried in her. She shudders and reaches back to fist her hand in his clothes, the other stealing down to feel his fingers disappearing inside her. As if that can stop him. But then her back arches, hot slick flows from her, and suddenly she's fucking herself on his hand, using her hold on him for leverage, while the other works her clit. She bumps back into him hard and then he gets with the program and molds himself to her, riding her motion while trying to keep his hand in place for her. 

She comes with a whine, her whole body tensing, which he takes advantage of to shove himself brutally against her, turning her in a tangle of limbs onto her belly, using his speed to unzip and free himself before they fully landed, her panties shoved to the top of her thighs, hitting the warmth of the space between her cheeks, one thrust, two, as she finally convulses in release and he's coming with her, both of them silent, locked together in that agonizing moment of ecstasy before he scrapes her hair to one side, dips his head down for her neck, has already set his fangs onto her skin before he recollects himself. 

He growls, raising goosebumps on her neck and shoulders, watches as they shoot down her arms and the fine hairs stand up on the back of her neck. Drops himself into that place and moves. 

But not too far— into the shadows beyond her bedroom window. He watches Cordelia tremble face-down for long moments before she rolls over, pulls her panties up. But then she shimmies and pulls them off altogether, sits up and flings them in the direction of her hamper, but they land on the carpet. Her gaze travels the contours of her room. She jerks the sheet up to straighten it. Lays down again. Scans the ceiling, scans the room again, her eyes seeming to stop on him as she stares at the open window, the slight wave of the curtains in the salty breeze off the ocean. 

She gets up and he steps forward, curious as to what she might do. Intrigued. Relaxed. Her hair swings forward as she leans in... and shuts the window. And drops the blinds. A smile pulls at Angelus's cheeks. 

He waits until her heartbeat slows, her breath deepens, and then he steals her panties. 

 

2)

Cordy breathes in, holds it, releases as she sweeps her torso and arm forward, turning the broadsword in her hand at the apex of the swing, and cutting the air in a sharp backhand before swirling it down and straightening again into recovery pose. 

In the eighth repetition, a darker than dark shadow beside the alcove that juts out in the basement's sidewall catches her eye. She steps back past recovery into a fighting stance. The shadow doesn't move, but she knows she isn't alone. She listens. There is only silence at first.

Then— Wesley's phone voice, a song she doesn't know the name of that the stations are all playing on repeat, the hum of the refrigerator just above where she's standing, a car on the street. 

Thin scent of dust, old wood, bare block. Tickle of rotted dank from the concrete access to the drainage sewer. Her own lavender lotion. Barely there honing oil off the crevices at the hilt of her blade when she draws it up and back, level with her head. 

She thrusts and parries. Ten repetitions while she watches the darker than dark against the crooked arch in the wall. The non-sensical alcove that doesn't belong. There's a bench there, with boxes of plastic flowers and faded leis crumbling to dust. 

Recovery. She swipes the sweat from her brow. Switch hands. Parry. Thrust. Her foot hitting the floor in a dull thump-shuffle-thump. on each strike as she steps. 

Six repetitions.

She's not alone. 

The shrill alarm of Angels' cell makes her jump. She spins away from the darker than dark as he silences it with a grumble behind her. She can't even speak, holding her sword in front of her in a two handed grip. Her heart thuds. 

"I believe I heard your phone. Are you here?" Wesley says from the phone, matching the rumble of his voice from above. 

"Downstairs," Angel says, holding her gaze.

"Working out with Cordy," Wesley exclaims. "Good! I need you both. We have a case!"

"Be right up," Angel says, and pockets the phone. 

Cordy feels wet skin, tangled sheets, the dark pressing in on her under a salt licked breeze. 

Angel tips his chin up. "Wes needs us."

Cordelia heaves in a breath, lowers the tip of her sword. "Yeah. I'll be right up."

He nods. The heavy tread of his boots is deliberate on the stairs as she watches him go. It only reminds her of his silence.

 

3)

She wakes post-vision in Angel's bed. She rolls over. Through the slats of his crib, she can see the soft rise and fall of Connor's sweet baby breath. It's quiet. Deep in the night, 3 AM quiet. Rain pattering on the window. 

It happened already, she can feel it. The woman's been saved. She reaches deep inside, tries to know if she'd know if the gang's all right. If Angel's okay. She can't tell. She lies there, listens to Connor breathe. Her phone buzzes when she's on the edge of dozing.

A text from Fred lights up the room. She's fine. We're all safe. Stopping for burgers and milkshakes. You want one?

Contentment washes through her. Good. Not for me, thanks she texts back. 

She dreams— of a warmth at her back, the drift of Angel's cologne, a hand on hers, of coming wrapped in strong arms. 

She wakes still fully clothed to sunlight streaming in through Angel's window, Connor cooing in his crib, Angel's scent on her pillow. 

 

4)

Angel stands outside Cordelia's apartment, his hand flat on the door, Holtz's letter to Connor in his hand. Groo is off on a wild goose chase research mission that should cost him half the night. Angel wants to talk to Cordelia alone. He's hopeful that he can bond with Connor now that Holtz has given Angel his blessing. But she's busy. Her heart rate is elevated, her breath tight. 

In the apartments around her, people are eating dinner, watching TV, someone's singing in the shower. But there's no one in the parking lot or the landing or the stairs. Angel leans his forehead against her door. Closing his eyes, he sifts. Below the spaghetti sauce and cooked meat and perfumed air fresheners, beneath the exhaust and swirl of scents rising from the pavement below, under Groo's bitter demon trace and Cordelia's coffee and musk, there's a flavor that he can taste on his tongue. One he knows. And it's rising, dewy and fresh.

He stows the letter inside his jacket and jimmies the lock without a sound. Dennis doesn't object, only closes the door on a soft puff of air once Angel's inside. Maybe he hates Groo as much as Angel does. There's not a single light on. He pads across the dark living room, taking in the moist air from the shower, the burst of strawberry and soap that lingers in the hall, and then slinks to her open bedroom door on the trail of her desire. 

She's in a robe, but its untied. She's spread out like a feast for his taking, but he won't. Not yet. They need to talk first. Her eyes are closed, her face turned away from him. Her left hand caresses her breasts in swirls, pausing to pluck at her blood-darkened nipples. Her right is tucked between her restless legs. Just her, her hands, her bed. He loves her. And he loves her like this. He stalks inside, using every instinct and skill he's learned over the last two centuries. Dennis touches his hair, wraps around his torso and arms. 

Angel nods. It's enough. Dennis retreats and Angel feels rather than sees the push of the energy that silently swings the door three-quarters closed. Angel contemplates this woman who has complicated his life and scrawled her essence on a chunk of his heart. She drops her knees open, allowing her desire to envelop him. His body responds in kind. But he holds himself in place until he can push the want, need, crave down, let it fill his cock without driving him to action. 

He drifts past her bed, reminded of another time, a different him. 

Cordelia pushes her hips up, thrust into the motion of her hand, tightens her thighs and speeds up her pace, rubbing her right hand down onto her belly to press herself down, as her hips rock against her own self-restraint. She turns her head, but her eyes are still closed. Her mouth is open as she tilts her head back, straining, chasing her need. Angel's fingers tingle, wanting to brush her hair off her face. He stays his hand.

He stands still although his body is raging. He's had practice. He can wait until later. Maybe much later, if he can't be safe with her. Her heart rate whispers to him, her blood throbs against her skin, her every move as she reaches, reaches, reaches sends him tendrils of her very essence, calls to him, and he watches her through a golden haze, tries not to open his mouth against the bulge of his fangs because if he does, he won't be able to keep his voice from coaxing her forth.

She writhes, a whine slipping from her throat, and lets her face turn again towards him. She opens her eyes, locks her gaze right on his. Knew right where he was, that he was watching. He closes his eyes as she comes hard, panting gasps that batter him, tilts his own head back as his orgasm hits him without warning. That first time with her comes flooding back to him. 

He locks his knees against falling, gives himself a moment to recover. Finally opens his eyes. She's still looking at him. Her lips tighten, not a smile, but she's not upset, either. He fishes the letter from his jacket and places it on her nightstand. Her gaze falls to his hands. He reaches out and strokes her head as she rolls over and curls up. He lifts the blanket from the end of her bed and covers her. 

Then he's gone, through Dennis's cold spot near the front door faster than the ghost can react. He pauses outside the closed door. The lock snicks over. Angel lets his hand fall upon the door once more. He can honestly say that he did not think he'd still be going home with wet pants two hundred forty-odd years into his afterlife. 

5)

At midnight, Cordelia walks a deserted North Shore beach in a Hawaiian print sarong and a gorgeous purple lei, a pair of white sandals dangling from her hand. She's celebrating her twenty-fifth year as a Higher Power by acknowledging her fiftieth birthday as Cordelia Chase. Of course, she couldn't reconstitute her original body, but she chose to look her age anyway. A little bit on the youngish side, of course, because she is Cordelia Chase for at least another half-century of earth-time before she moves on. 

The salt breeze whispers over her skin and tousles her hair and her thoughts turn to her old friends, the textures of physical life, the food. Her body responds to everything, the whole cacophony of being and she almost forgot how that feels. Almost. 

She strolls off the sand onto a barely-there trail into a scrubby woods of evergreens and shrubs and palms. The cabin is forlorn, sided in weathered grey wood. It's spell-shielded from casual view. She knocks, but she already knows he's home.

Angel's eyes widen when he opens the door. "You came."

"I said I would."

"I thought—"

"That I only said I would because you were dying?"

He nods. He's beautiful in bare feet and worn jeans. And she gets to be a cougar. Physically, anyway.

"You're closing in on two hundred seventy five. I'm fifty. We never got our chance, Angel."

"Can you—" He swallows. "Stay?"

Her heart leaps and yes, she missed this. She missed him. His nostrils flare and she knows he's absorbed her delight in her physicality, knows she's been waiting for this as she walked down the beach. 

"I can. I'm still a Higher Power, but I have more choices now. I can choose you. If you want me."

Before she can blink, her back is sinking into a cloud of a duvet on his bed, his weight following her down and then he reminds her of all the pleasure a body can offer.

 

Fin

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi at [elleandrewspatt.com](http://www.elleandrewspatt.com) :-)


End file.
